Sweet Gesture of Love
by Shinomori's Woman
Summary: "Do you prefer his mark on your skin over mine, Misao?" Whatever marks he was talking about, she didn't know. With or without marks, she was his anyway. DISCLAIMED. SEMI-DARK, PWP.


"_**Sweet Gesture of Love"**_

Her wrists were small.

Too small.

So very delicate.

Even more so now, gathered together into his one large grip – his palm rough and calloused from years of sword yielding and hand to hand combat, against her softer, paler ones. His hands were made to yield weapons and he'd never had thought of doing anything else with them, not something so….so subtle, not entirely so. Of course, he'd done other things and bedded women before. But that didn't matter. That never mattered. But now, that didn't matter anymore. He had much, much more important tasks to focus on.

He shifted his glazed eyes to her wide ones once more – so wide, so open, so innocent. He could read her like an open book, every emotion written in bold letters, making it too easy for an experienced reader like him to pick up the slightest change in her moods.

And _he_ had too.

Fear.

Her fear as she cowered beneath his heavy weight, her small body twisting awkwardly to get away and failing. He enjoyed it, he enjoyed it far too much. He felt it in his chi, the sick pleasure physically pungent to his furious senses. But he'd taken care of that, hadn't he?

Perhaps he'd gone a bit too far with his punishment.

Mutilating an already mangled corpse could be a bothersome job. Too much blood, too much cracked bones. He had enjoyed that, severing each part of his anatomy that touched her, dared touch what was his. Yes. Perhaps he had really gone too far. But she didn't need to know that.

"A-aoshi-sama?"

Her whimper reached his ears in soft waves, waking another bout of unexpected desire through his entire body. Something so raw, so obscene – it both terrified and excited him.

"You're hurting me."

Was he really holding her that tight? He loosened his clasp and she released a slow breath, her small body relaxing under him. New pink markings over fading blue ones greeted his sight and suddenly his chest felt tightened . He reached forward, gathering her wrists into his hold again and this time, he clasped them harder and she whimpered once more.

"Do you prefer his mark on your skin over mine, Misao?"

She stopped struggling and the dark room fell eerily silent. Was that fear in her eyes? He hadn't wanted to frighten her with his low words. What was she afraid of? Was she afraid of him? He shifted and lowered his gaze on hers and she cowered slightly under his hard scrutiny. For no reason at all, he felt strangely satisfied. Fear of him was good. Better than being fearful of anyone else on this earth. She was his and his alone. His to cherish, his to hold and his to bring harm to. No one else's.

"Answer me, Misao. Do you?"

He punctuated his demand with a sharp bite to her neck and she unwittingly arched away, exposing more of her slender throat to his welcoming mouth. But he stopped right there, his hot breath fanning against her pulsing skin, his body taut in anticipation or anger, he couldn't tell.

Neither could she.

She didn't know what to do, his breath against her neck and his muscular body covering hers was making it impossible for her to think coherently and the iron grip he had on her wrists was painful enough to hold her attention anywhere but there. He'd demanded an answer, hadn't he? Something about his marks and her skin.

Marks?

What marks?

Was he referring to those marks the bastard had left during that incident?

Perhaps.

He could.

They were ugly, very hard to ignore once they have scarred your beautiful vision.

Purple and bluish. Plain ugly. And he'd seen them. Hadn't he? So, perhaps he was. Then again, his fingers would no doubt leave even darker marks over her pale wrists. And he'd just bitten her. Not too gently either. That would leave mark too. Was he talking about them?

She didn't know and she couldn't be sure either. And she wasn't sure that even if she was sure, she would know how to answer. Whatever mark he was referring to, she didn't know if she wanted either on her body. Definitely not his, But Aoshi-sama….

He was a different thing entirely. With or without marks, she was his anyway, whether he accepted her or not. It was something she had realized long ago. That she belonged to this man hovering over hers, body and mind, heart and soul. When it had happened, she didn't know. And sometimes she wondered if she could have stopped it from happening even if she wanted to.

Did she want to?

This man, Shinomori Aoshi, her Aoshi-sama, was such a peculiar man. So tough to deduce, to a slip of his emotion to aid anyone to know him, or even enough to guess. He was such a sweetheart once. She didn't know who he was anymore. But she was sure, whoever he was, she was his.

Knowing not what to answer and to be relieved of the pain on her wrists and the strange feeling brewing somewhere down below – she settled by shaking her head mutely and he seemed satisfied enough. He released his grip and leaned down again, this time running his wet tongue against the appearing red mark on her neck. She mewled in response and he soothed her, softly rubbing his thumbs against the bruising skin on the underside of her hands.

His hands ran lower, along her arms and down her shoulders finally settling on the warmth of her cheeks whereas his mouth slid upwards, kissing and nibbling all the way to the small dip of her chin. Their eyes met once again and molten fire stared at stormy sea.

Time stopped for a moment before the earth exploded into a million fragments. He swooped down and his hard, demanding lips found hers. There was nothing gentle about their first kiss, it was, instead, everything quite opposite – raw, hard and very demanding. His lips forced hers open as his hands traced lower, removing any and every article, both his and hers, that separated her gentle skin from his heated ones.

She had given up trying to think properly long ago, letting herself to be lost in his burning touch instead. And honestly, nothing had ever felt so good. He was a man made for wielding weapons and there was nothing tender about his touch. His warm hands raked roguishly over her supple skin and his teeth left its print everywhere and she could taste her own blood on her tongue before he swept it clean. She knew she'd have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow, but she'd think about it later when the time came. She pushed aside other thoughts as she rather boldly looped her arms around his neck and shifted herself more snuggly between his thighs.

For now, she had better things to do.

Better things like returning his sweet, sweet gesture.

**Fin.**

Meh. Happy Birthday.

P.s: It sucks. I know! But u can't expect me to write a w. fic in 2 hours! Jar moddhe adha ghonta tui text kore birokto korsis!


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